


Evolve

by All_I_need



Series: Evolve [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-TFP, S4 fix-it, the ending we deserved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: "How long do you need me to wait?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the TJLC community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+TJLC+community).



> This is the fix-it fic I needed to write and I believe many of you need to read. We did not get what we were led to believe we would get, or the outcome we deserved, so I took the ending of TFP and ran with it. Enjoy!

*****

John has learned to cherish quiet evenings.  
  
Tonight seems to be shaping up for one. He has just brought Rosie to bed with a minimum of fuss and Sherlock has been busying himself in the sitting room, barely saying a word for hours.  
  
It's a good kind of quiet tonight, John thinks as he ambles into the kitchen for an evening cuppa.  
  
"Want a cup of tea, Sherlock?"  
  
No reply.  
  
He turns, scans the sitting room to find his friend sitting in his chair, turning his phone in his hands. He looks pensive.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
Sherlock blinks, lifts his head. "Sorry?"  
  
"I asked if you wanted a cuppa."  
  
"Please."  
  
He returns to staring at his phone, obviously deep in thought. John would know that particular frown anywhere. It's Sherlock's patented 'I'm struggling with a question relating to emotion' look.  
  
It has been happening on and off these past two months as they slowly settled into life after Eurus, once they returned 221b to its former glory and John finally moved back in for good after they converted the room next to his into a nursery for Rosie. Sometimes, Sherlock goes quiet and gets that look on his face, usually followed hours later by a question with too many emotional hooks to answer without tearing open your own skin in the process.  
  
Previous examples have included "Do you think I'm very like her?" and "Would you have forgiven me for shooting Mycroft?", so John feels a mounting trepidation as he wonders what it will be this time.  
  
Once, Sherlock had simply asked if John would mind if he stared at him. John hadn't even thought about disagreeing, but then Sherlock had stared for four hours and twenty-eight minutes, not saying a word, just watching every move he made.  
  
The kettle boils and John pours two cups of tea, adding the prerequisite amounts of milk and some sugar for Sherlock, then carries them into the sitting room.  
  
He places his own cup on the table next to his chair before tapping Sherlock's arm with his now free hand. "Your tea."  
  
"Thank you," Sherlock mutters, then stares into the cup as if he might find the answer to every question he has in the swirls of milk.  
  
"Are you all right?," John asks. He knows Sherlock isn't, neither of them is, really, but the question needs to be asked.  
  
Sherlock shrugs. "Reasonably fine." A pause. "Thinking."  
  
"About?," John presses.  
  
Another shrug. Sherlock takes a sip of his tea.  
  
His phone lights up and a breathy moan fills the room.  
  
John feels his lips tighten. "Still texting Irene?"  
  
"She is texting me," Sherlock says. "Nothing much I can do to stop her except change my number and I've build up too many valuable contacts for that."  
  
"Is that what you have been thinking about, then?," John asks. "Are you finally going to text her back?"  
  
Sherlock sighs. He hasn't even glanced at his phone. "John ..."  
  
And he knows that tone, too. This is the 'I have an important question for you and I need you to answer honestly if I can ever bring myself to actually ask' tone Sherlock sometimes uses when he's feeling unsure. It puts John on alert immediately.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
Sherlock hesitates, then plows on. "Some months ago you told me I should speak up while I still could. You told me to say something before the opportunity was gone."  
  
John blinks, nods. "I did. Have you finally done that?"  
  
His friend shakes his head. "No. I'm missing information."  
  
That is ... unexpected. Sherlock always knows more than everyone else in the room, certainly more than John does. He frowns. "What kind of information?"  
  
Sherlock takes a breath, finally raising his gaze to meet John's eyes. His stare is intense.  
  
"You told me to say something before the opportunity is gone," he repeats. "But you didn't say how long you needed me to wait."  
  
John stares. Blinks. Shakes his head. Tries to make sense of what Sherlock is saying.  
  
"I ... what?"  
  
Sherlock leans forward in his chair, his forearms resting on his thighs, his body tense. "How long do you need me to wait?"  
  
"To wait for what?," John asks, wondering if he is somehow missing a script.  
  
When Sherlock speaks again, his voice is quiet and John has to lean forward to hear him, subconsciously mimicking his position.  
  
"How long do you need me to wait until you are ready to hear what I have to say?"  
  
Silence.  
  
John has no idea what to say. Sherlock is staring at him and he is staring back, pinned by those iridescent eyes and feeling rather like one of the microbes under Sherlock's microscope.  
  
He swallows, licks his lips, tries to figure out if Sherlock really is saying what John thinks he is.  
  
"Sherlock ..."  
  
"I've been waiting for five years, John," Sherlock tells him calmly. "I can wait a little while longer. But I need to know how long _you_ need me to wait."  
  
Something tiny and warm sparks in John's chest, a glimmer of some long-forgotten thing he never dared to examine for fear of what it might become if he paid attention to it.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Sherlock nods and leans back. "Think about it, will you?"  
  
Before John can reply, there's a noise from the baby monitor and Sherlock jumps up.  
  
"I'll go. Finish your tea."  
  
He is gone before John can do or say anything, so he just sits there, staring at his now lukewarm tea as he listens to Sherlock telling Rosie scientific facts to lull her back to sleep. It always works like a charm. John rather thinks his daughter will be the most well-educated toddler in all of England, at least as far as science goes.  
  
John thinks Sherlock will never stop surprising him.  
  
John thinks he really should have seen this coming.  
  
John thinks he has no idea what to do with the question Sherlock just asked him.  
  
When Sherlock comes back ten minutes later, he settles back into his chair, grabs one of Lestrade's cold case files that are piled on the floor next to it, and gets to work as if nothing out of the ordinary happened.  
  
John thinks Sherlock has been waiting for five years and wonders how many not-ordinary moments he missed.

  
  
*****

  
They don't talk about it for two weeks.  
  
John doesn't know what to say and Sherlock doesn't seem to think there is anything that needs to be said.  
  
The only change John can make out is that when they go anywhere at all, Sherlock now asks "Are you ready to go?" rather than stopping after "Are you ready?". John wonders if he is doing it on purpose, if Sherlock is somehow saving it up. He wonders when he will ask again

Instead of talking, there is a lot of doing.  
  
Sherlock works his way through all the cold cases, successfully closes four and reopens three, sifting through evidence and spending hours at his microscope in the kitchen.  
  
He rarely uses the lab at St Bart's these days, not after that first run-in with Molly after Eurus ... well, after Eurus.  
  
John doesn't know what precisely happened during the conversation they had, but after that Sherlock has been avoiding both St. Bart's and Molly, conveniently leaving the flat every time she comes by to visit Rosie and only returning long after she had gone.  
  
John wonders if this is Sherlock's way of giving her space.  
  
For a while he wondered if Sherlock is giving himself space, too, but ever since Sherlock asked him that question, there really doesn't seem to be much room left to wonder.  
  
So they go on with their lives. They solve cases, let themselves be mothered by Mrs Hudson, chase criminals through London's dark streets and play with Rosie.  
  
But something has begun to change, or perhaps John has finally allowed himself to notice what has always been there: the way their eyes will meet and hold, the way Sherlock sometimes stands too close to him, apparently without noticing. The way Sherlock always knows where John is at any given moment, the way John can see Sherlock's fingers twitch from the corner of his eye as if he just barely stopped himself from reaching out.  
  
Each time he notices one of these things, his breath will inexplicably hitch in his chest and the warm glow behind his breastbone will intensify and he wonders if Sherlock notices.  
  
Time passes, hours swallowed up in chunks, days passing in a blur of crime and something that might be domestic bliss.  
  
They end up having fish and chips at a food truck on a cold October evening as they wait for a suspect to emerge from the house on the opposite side of the street.  
  
Between one chip and the next, Sherlock turns to John and says: "Are you ready?"  
  
John huffs. "He just went in there, I think we've got time to finish our dinner, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "No. I meant: _Are you ready?_ "  
  
His gaze is intense, expectant, his body angled towards John. He wonders if Sherlock has always turned towards him like some odd black-blue-and-white flower to the sun.  
  
"I ... I don't know," John confesses.  
  
He can feel it coming, a huge wave of something, but the only sign of it so far is the water receeding as far as it can go. He wonders when it will hit. He wonders who will be swept away first.  
  
He licks his lips. "Not yet."  
  
Sherlock's eyes flick to his mouth and linger and his expression is, well, it's one John thinks he might have seen before, what feels like a lifetime ago.  
  
Sherlock blinks and nods and his expression returns to neutral. He turns his gaze back to the house opposite the street as he hunts for the last piece of fish among the chips.  
  
John shifts uneasily, wondering how Sherlock can hide his feelings away like this, just tuck them away somewhere inside his great big brain until there is time for him to let them out.  
  
Later that night, after a wild, breathless chase through the streets and the subsequent apprehension of a serial burglar, John watches Sherlock sit on the floor in their sitting room, erecting a tower out of coloured building blocks and allowing Rosie to knock it down over and over, much to her delight.  
  
The warm feeling in his chest intensifies at the sound of his daughter's laughter. Sherlock has never been all that good with children but he seems to have a knack for Rosie.  
  
Perhaps, John thinks, Sherlock simply has a knack for Watsons. The thought makes him smile.  
  
Sherlock looks up and catches his gaze, his own grin turning softer, and he tilts his head in question.  
  
John shakes his head. "You're really good with her."  
  
"I'm teaching her the principles of structural integrity and gravity in a controlled environment," Sherlock says.  
  
John grins. "Whatever you say."  
  
Sherlock huffs and ducks his head under the guise of snatching one of the building blocks out from under John's chair. It doesn't quite prevent John from seeing that his cheekbones are tinged pink.

 

*****

  
Three weeks later Rosie catches a cold and John finds it impossible to decide who is worse off - poor sniffling Rosie, crying her eyes out, or him, having to deal with both his miserable daughter and an absolutely panicked Sherlock.  
  
He spent the entire previous day measuring Rosie's temperature with the back of his hand every five minutes and keeping a log on her tissue consumption, stopping the time between her sneezes and harrassing Mrs Hudson to knit her a warm hat and socks, completely ignorant of the fact that Mrs Hudson doesn't knit. The rest of his time was spent arguing with John about taking Rosie to see a doctor who isn't emotionally compromised like John.  
  
And now this.  
  
"It's just a cold, Sherlock!," he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.  
  
Sherlock, dripping wet from the downpour outside and ladden with Boots bags, double-blinks at him.  
  
"Seriously, did you buy everything they had?"  
  
John takes the bags from him and peers inside. "Baby lotion?"  
  
"To avoid rashes from the tissues," Sherlock explains.  
  
"We have a whole tub of that in the bathroom," John says. "And what's that? Extra soft tissues?"

"See reason stated previously," Sherlock tells him and shrugs out of his coat.  
  
"Yes, but three family-sized packs?"  
  
"You never know when they might come in handy again." Which likely means Sherlock intends to use them for an experiment later.  
  
"Cough drops? She doesn't have a cough."  
  
"Yet."  
  
He pulls another pack out of the bag. "A thermometer? We have at least three in that drawer over there."  
  
"I used them to measure the temperatures inside a decaying pig last week."  
  
John makes a face. "Fair enough."  
  
He starts emptying the rest of the bags, then notices the dripping wet detective still standing in a growing puddle in their kitchen.  
  
"What are you still doing here? Go get out of these wet clothes, have a hot shower, put on dry clothes, and come back here for a cuppa."  
  
Sherlock toes out of his wet shoes and slouches off towards the bathroom, trailing drops of water after him. He sheds his suit jacket on the way and John tries not to stare at his white, now translucent shirt or the way it clings to his back.  
  
John tears his gaze away and resolutely turns back to the supplies Sherlock brought. There is enough to outfit a small clinic. With all the wipes Sherlock bought, John thinks he could literally wrap Rosie in cotton. If only that were enough to keep her safe and sound.  
  
He smiles to himself as he packs away Sherlock's purchases. It's nice to have physical evidence that Sherlock cares about Rosie and takes his duties as godfather seriously. Then again, John supposes he shouldn't be surprised. Not after Sherlock put every professional wedding planner to shame for his and Mary's wedding.  
  
His smile falters.  
  
What would Mary say to all of this? His clever, brave wife. What would she have to say about Sherlock's not-quite confession?  
  
John thinks about the video messages she recorded and thinks his wife may have seen more than he did. It occurs to him she has been encouraging this. He wonders what she saw that he missed. He wonders why she never once said anything and then he wonders what would have happened if she had and is glad she didn't.  
  
No, he can't hide behind Mary's memory. It's not fair to her, to Sherlock, or himself.  
  
He can feel the tension rising between them and he knows it's not all Sherlock's doing.

Later that night Sherlock sneezes. John wordlessly hands him one of the family-sized tissue packs.

He is not at all surprised to find Sherlock huddled in a miserable heap on the sofa the next morning. Rosie is sitting on her play blanket on the floor, beaming at John as he enters and trying to throw a ball at Sherlock. Her cold seems to have disappeared safe for a light sniffle.

One look at Sherlock is enough to tell John that his friend will be out of action for a couple of days at least. He pulls the blanket off the back of his chair and drapes it over Sherlock, unable to resist running a hand through his hair. Sherlock hums quietly and arches into the touch like a cat.

"Are you ready now?," he mumbles. "'cause if you are I might hate you a little bit."

"Get some rest," John murmurs, deciding to ignore him this time. "I'll text Lestrade that you're sick."

"I can work," Sherlock argues, but his voice is a low mumble and he can barely keep his eyes open.

"You can work once you're fine," John tells him. "Now rest."

He picks up Rosie and carries her into the kitchen. "Come on, sweetheart. Let's let Sherlock sleep for a bit. You can play with him later."

 

*****

  
It quickly transpires that Sherlock is much worse off than Rosie was. By day two, he is running a fever that leaves him in turns shaking, his teeth chattering, and trying to remove as many of his clothes as he can, much to John's distress. He mopes around the flat, looking miserable and likely feeling even worse than he looks.

John rather feels like he has two babies to take care of and is not at all surprised to find that Rosie is much lower maintenance than a bored, sniffling genius. While his daughter is easily placated with stuffed animals and her other toys, keeping Sherlock occupied during his sporadic periods of wakefulness is a full-time job.

Experiments are out of the question - Sherlock flat out refuses to risk contaminating the samples. Case files can't hold his interest, his violin is torture to his head, he won't play with Rosie for fear of passing his illness back to her.

John tries to reason that she has antibodies now but Sherlock won't hear a word. "She and I might have caught different strains of the virus, John! I will not have her suffer so."

The determination in his voice is a surprise and John feels the warmth in his chest expand yet again at this sign of thoughtfulness, at yet more evidence that Sherlock truly cares about Rosie.

It feels like one of the longest weeks of John's life. Mercifully, he himself stays uninfected, years of work at various clinics having resulted in a robust immune system.

Three days into the ordeal, Molly comes for a visit with her goddaughter. She tenses at the sight of Sherlock's coat on its usual hook. John belatedly remembers it has been months since these two last saw each other in person.

"Don't mind him, he's sick," John tells her, nodding towards a heap of blankets on the sofa. "He's been sleeping all morning."

He doesn't add that Sherlock spent half the night retching in the bathroom.

The detective is a heap of misery on the sofa, where John can keep an eye on him. The only visible part of Sherlock is his unkempt hair, sticking to his sweaty forehead in places. The pile of blankets covering him trembles slightly as he shivers in his sleep.

Molly's face twists into a sympathetic grimace before she quickly looks away, allowing herself to be distracted by Rosie's excited gurgling at the sight of her.

"Would you mind taking her out for a stroll in Regent's Park?," John asks. "We've been cooped up in the flat for days, can't leave Sherlock alone in the state he's in, but I think she might do with some fresh air."

"Of course." Molly relaxes a bit, clearly relieved at the opportunity to get out of Sherlock's presence.

John lets out a long breath. "Thank you. I really appreciate you helping me out here."

He grabs the baby bag and checks it to make sure everything Molly might need is in there while she dresses Rosie in her tiny coat. It's light blue that brings out her eyes and it's far too fashionable. John smiles. Sherlock bought it for her and though he won't say where he got it, John thinks he might have seen one just like it on a Burberry ad.

"Thanks," John says again as he hands Molly the bag and kisses Rosie on one round cheek.

Molly smiles. "It's fine, really. She's my goddaughter, of course I'll help. It's not her fault her godfather and I don't ..." She trails off, her smile turning brittle. "I'll see you later."

John watches her leave and wishes there was something he could do to make this easier. He knows there isn't. Molly will take time to heal, to move on, but he has every hope that she will. Perhaps he should give Lestrade a nudge to finally ask her out for coffee.

He shakes his head at his own thoughts and returns up the stairs.

"Is she gone?," Sherlock murmurs from the sofa.

John smiles. "Thought you were awake. Yes, she's taking Rosie to the park."

Sherlock hums. "Good. Fresh air is good."

"I could open a window," John suggests.

"I'm freezing, John, don't you dare."

Sherlock glowers at him from beneath the blankets, utterly failing to look threatening.

John grins at him. "That is actually rather adorable."

Sherlock huffs. "Don't be silly. I think you're confusing me with your daughter."

"So you think Rosie is adorable?," John asks, his grin widening.

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbles. "I'm sick, interrogating me on my opinions isn't fair."

But John can't let this go. "Do you think I'm adorable?"

"Joooohn," Sherlock whines and John laughs, patting his shoulder and turning towards the kitchen.

"I'll make you another cuppa," he says.

"I think you're gorgeous," Sherlock mutters.

John pauses two steps from the sofa. "Thank you," he says softly.

Sherlock is studiously not looking at him. "Yes, well."

He looks so small on that sofa, shivering under his blankets, and John feels another flutter of warmth at the sight of Sherlock looking so human.

"For what it's worth, I think you're not too bad yourself."

Sherlock freezes, turns his head to stare at him, utterly incredulous. "Really?"

His voice is startlingly vulnerable.

It occurs to John that no one ever compliments Sherlock on anything but his mind, if at all.

"Yes of course. Of course you are bloody gorgeous. Have you ever seen yourself in a mirror?"

Sherlock swallows. "John ..."

But John is angry now. "Seriously, if I ever get my hands on a TARDIS, I will travel back in time and kick everyone in the nuts who ever made you feel like you are anything but the most amazing man I've ever seen."

He stops his rant before it can get out of hand, breathing heavily.

Sherlock is staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide.

"John ..." he says again, then swallows and looks away, visibly pulling himself together. "Are you ready now?"

John pauses. Breathes. But this isn't fair. Not like this. "Not yet," he says.

Sherlock nods. "Then you better go make that tea before I forget myself."

The thought of staying is shockingly tempting and John takes that as a sign to remove himself to the kitchen before he does something he isn't quite ready for. Not yet.

 

*****

  
Two weeks later Sherlock is long recovered from his bout of what was clearly the flu and back to terrorising London's criminal underworld.

As of late, he has also taken to terrorising John's every waking thought and also some of his dreams.

But, to be fair, that is hardly his fault. Sherlock has been behaving exactly as he always has, and that is precisely the problem.

Because now John is starting to realise - if Sherlock behaves this way when he has got something to say to him, and if Sherlock has always behaved this way, then Sherlock has always had something he wanted to say. 'I've been waiting for five years' he said.

It is becoming increasingly obvious to John that he is even more oblivious than Sherlock always claims he is.

Not anymore, though.

They are on the brink of something, here, and John feels like he can see the giant wall of water now, still distant but quickly coming closer. He takes deeper breaths these days, tries to get some more oxygen into his lungs in preparation. When it comes, he wants to be ready.

 

*****

  
A week later, John goes to the cemetery and finds a fresh arrangement of flowers on Mary's grave.  
  
He doesn't need to wonder - there is only one person in the world who would buy Venus flytraps and put them on a grave.  
  
John leaves his own bouquet of hydrangeas next to them and returns home, the warm something in his chest so large now he thinks his ribcage is going to burst open at any moment.  
  
He comes home to find Sherlock in the sitting room, lying flat on his back and holding Rosie up in the air above him, making plane noises at her. Rosie shrieks and giggles, waving her arms and kicking her feet in obvious delight.  
  
"I'm guessing this is you teaching my daughter about aerodynamics?," John asks dryly.  
  
Sherlock snorts. "Don't be ridiculous, John. We're playing airplane."  
  
There is no witty reply anywhere in his head, so John smiles softly at the two most important people in his life and goes to hang up his coat.  
  
Later that night, as he finishes the washing up, he hears Sherlock murmuring to Rosie in the bathroom. From previous experience, John knows they will both be covered in foam and that most of the water will be on the floor rather than in the tub.  
  
He dries his hands and goes to check up on them anyway.  
  
Sherlock is talking, the low rumble of his voice soothing.  
  
When John pokes his head into the room, Sherlock is bent over the tub and toweling Rosie dry. She is looking at him very intently, appearing to listen to every word he says.  
  
"- this is important, do you hear me? You are going to start talking soon and we want your first word to be 'Daddy' when he comes to pick you up. It's only one word, even an infant should be capable of remembering that much."  
  
John quietly retreats back into the kitchen and holds his breath for what seems like a too long time until Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, having dressed Rosie in her pajamas and handing her to John so he can put her to bed.  
  
He does, making raspberries at her and kissing her soft round cheeks and each of her fingers in turn.  
  
She falls asleep quickly and he makes sure the baby monitor is switched on before returning downstairs to the sitting room.  
  
He thinks he can hear water, but perhaps it's the blood rushing in his ears.  
  
"Ah, John," Sherlock says as soon as he walks in. "I've been thinking we should take her to the zoo tomorrow. Tuesdays are statistically days with fewer visitors which will allow even the shy animals to emerge from their hiding places and we can teach her to identi-"  
  
"Now," John says.  
  
Sherlock stops mid-word.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Now," John repeats, closing the door to the hallway behind him. "I'm ready now."  
  
Sherlock stares at him. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Why now?"  
  
John shrugs. "Just because. I'm ready now. Tell me."  
  
Sherlock crosses the room to stand right in front of him, much closer than necessary to be heard.  
  
He raises both hands, slowly, carefully, as if afraid John might startle and flee.  
  
John stands up straighter, feeling something inside him tense and relax all at once. The wave is almost upon them now, he can practically see the foam glistening at the crest.  
  
Sherlock cradles his face in his hands, so gentle as if he is holding the most precious thing on earth. His eyes are dark and warm and serious and as John watches, he lets the last mask slip from his face, hiding nothing.  
  
And while John is still grappling with all that he sees, Sherlock tells him.  
  
"I love you, John Hamish Watson."  
  
John lets out a sigh that threatens to turn into a sob halfway through.  
  
His hands come up unbidden, mirroring Sherlock's own, and he lets his thumbs stroke along those impossible cheekbones.  
  
"I'm yours."  
  
It's an easy promise to make. After all that they have seen and done and said and been through, this is the truest thing he has ever said or done or felt.  
  
It's so, so easy, as the wave finally crashes down on him and it feels as if Sherlock's touch is all that keeps him anchored.  
  
The words he has struggled with for as long as he can remember are right there on the tip of his tongue and there is no reason not to say them out loud now.  
  
"I love you, too."  
  
Sherlock makes a tiny, choked noise and falls into him.  
  
They kiss like they always wanted to, like they always meant to, like they always knew they should have done so many times before. They kiss not like it is the only chance they will ever get but as if they will never ever stop, as if they are determined to make up for five years of waiting and longing and wondering and missed opportunities and lost chances all in one go.  
  
And as they finally draw back to stare into each other's eyes in amazed delight, they know.  
  
There will be no more miscommunication, not about this. There will be no more going off on their own, leaving the other behind.  
  
This time, they will make it right.  
  
This time, they will do it together.

 

 

 

 

 

> **THE END.**

**Author's Note:**

> I am going to flood this fandom with Johnlock fanfiction this year. So you better buckle up, because I am going to turn all my disappointment and hurt and sense of betrayal into pure writing energy. Stay tuned.


End file.
